Don't Worry
by baseballfan44
Summary: Alan's thoughts while picking Don up from the emergency room. Takes place after series end, sometime when Charlie and Amita are in England.


Here's kind of a long drabble. It's not so much a story as it was a writing exercise for me that I thought I might as well share. Personally, I don't like parts of it much and I feel like it's kinda scattered, but whatever. I didn't really edit or revise it, so any mistakes/non-flowing parts/bad characterization are the result of a lack of effort on my part. Some of you guys might like it-other people often like my stuff better than I do. Leave a review!

**Don't Worry**

In a strange way, Alan was surprised he wasn't more frantic after Colby's phone call. Sure, they'd been through worse things in the past, and Alan wasn't worried, just slightly concerned. It was though a small fraction of his being had become—oh, he shuddered at the thought—almost used to the idea of this happening. It made him almost sick to think about. How could any father in their right mind ever become _used_ to the idea of his son being injured?

Okay, Alan reminded himself that it wasn't anything serious. Don's latest on-the-job injury was not life threatening in any way. It wasn't like they'd all be waiting for hours on pins and needles to find out if Don would survive after suffering some serious and debilitating injury. In fact, that had only happened once—less than two years ago, when Donnie had been stabbed and had subsequently suffered from a collapsed lung and even once had fallen into cardiac arrest.

Don had really only come that frighteningly close to leaving them once. Once was way more than enough for Alan.

Even then, Alan remembered remaining shockingly calm. He'd felt he had to; Don was normally the one who stayed strong and calm for everyone—but in that instance, someone, namely Alan, had to be strong for Donnie. Inside, however, Alan had been more afraid than he could recall except maybe when Margaret had first passed.

This was different, though. Don wasn't dying. Colby had called just a few minutes ago to inform Alan that Don was in the hospital after sustaining a minor gunshot wound to the shoulder. It had already been determined by the E.R. doctor that there had been no internal damage and there was no surgery necessary. The wound would require stitches, but Don would be released immediately after that. Alan wasn't worried.

Alan exhaled heavily, putting his foot on the brake. Of course, it was rush hour in L.A. At this rate, Alan would finally have grandchildren by the time he got to Don at the hospital—and neither of his daughters-in-law were even pregnant yet.

Traffic ahead was starting to move forward, Alan could see. Not even a full second after the car two cars in front of him had begun to roll forward, Alan was blaring his horn at the black pick-up truck directly in front of him. The pick-up casually commenced moving, almost as if ignoring Alan's impatient protests.

Alan glared at the pick-up for several seconds before taking a deep breath. _Calm down,_ he told himself. He wasn't sure why exactly he was so impatient. He reminded himself that Don was okay. He didn't really have anything to worry about. Don himself would probably tell Alan that, too, the instant Alan stepped into his son's cubicle in the E.R. no matter how tired or in pain he appeared. Colby would tell him too before he could get to Don, knowing that any assurance would make him feel better. The E.R. doctor might assure him as well.

Don was fine; there was nothing to worry about. Alan wasn't even worked up about it. He hated being so cavalier about it—he was appalled that he felt so calm about his own son being injured and being shot at, no less, by someone who likely wanted Don dead.

It wasn't a big deal, right? It had happened before, after all. In the seven and a half years since Don had been living and working in Los Angeles, he'd been whisked off to the E.R. after a bloody altercation maybe . . . oh, Alan wasn't sure he could count that high. All of them had been relatively minor, including this one—except for the stabbing.

Alan turned on the radio, realizing his thoughts were moving in circles. He wasn't worried about Don. Don could take care of himself—or so that's what Alan's overly independent son kept telling him. He hit the button for the satellite radio, switching it over to the 1960's station and letting the music carry him back to a time before children that did dangerous things that made him age too fast.

No, Alan wasn't worried about Don. Then what was he? He was mildly annoyed, he decided. He was annoyed that Don kept doing this to him. He was annoyed that Don had to lead such a dangerous life that periodically landed him in the emergency room—so that Alan had to interrupt his day to go pick up his injured son when really, the whole thing could have been avoided if Don had only picked a safer career path to follow. It was inconsiderate, really.

Red light, more stopping.

Okay. Alan knew perfectly well that he was being completely unfair and unreasonable. Although Don would undoubtedly try to conceal it later, he was likely in a certain amount of pain. And it wasn't like Don had purposely gone _looking_ to get shot in the shoulder.

A wave of despair crashed over Alan suddenly, shocking him like a bolt of lightning. What kind of a father was he? Was he really truly and seriously annoyed with his own son for getting himself shot? He immediately felt guilt stretch to every node of his body, taking control of him completely. It was as though he'd been surged full of power, like a recharged battery, driving him to push harder on the gas pedal. Suddenly, Alan was weaving in and out of lanes—driving like a maniac, and not caring. Something was propelling him faster towards his son as well as pushing him escape from his own horror he had in himself.

_I'm so sorry, Donnie._

Eventually, Alan had calmed himself back down to a reasonable level. There was no need to get in an accident and land himself in an E.R., especially when Don was fine. He chuckled a little to himself. Don was fine, and he wasn't really all that worried. He was being ridiculous.

Red light. Alan stopped the car.

Well, in any case, Alan figured, it wouldn't hurt anything to take Donnie home and spoil him a little. With Robin working a trial in San Francisco for a few weeks, Don had been spending a lot of time at work. Although Don's new position as SAC made for much less field work, he'd been putting in enough hours lately that he'd ended up in the field more often once again.

And with Charlie and Amita still in England, Alan felt a void. He hadn't spent much time with either of his children lately. Sure, they were both grown men with their own lives, but that had never made a difference before until recently—they'd always somehow been around these last few years.

But now Alan figured it was time for him and Don to just spend some quality time together. He figured someone might force his son to take some time off of work. Alan would take him home today, at least. Maybe he'd cook his eldest son some nice rib-eye. It wouldn't hurt to spoil Don. His son worked hard and he deserved it. It wasn't because Alan was worried, not at all. Because he wasn't worried. There was nothing to worry about. Don was fine.

He was finally only about two blocks from the hospital, which was good, because for some reason, the rush hour traffic was making him more impatient today than it usually did.

Alan became excited at the prospect of spending the evening catching up with his son. It had been awhile since just they'd spent time together, just the two of them. It's just that they'd been so busy lately—Don with work and Robin, Alan with his job at the software company and renovating the garage. Before that, though, the two of them had occasionally kicked back together at the house, sometimes with Charlie and sometimes without Charlie. It was nice, Alan had always thought. When the boys were younger, Don had missed out on much of his parents' attention—a fact they had all known, but never talked about.

Now that Don and Charlie were older, it sometimes seemed to Alan that Charlie was a little more settled into his life than Don was. Professionally, Charlie was extremely well respected—and he was extremely confident in his own abilities, except for a brief stint the few weeks after Don had been stabbed. Personally, well, everyone loved Charlie, and it had been clear forever that he would end up with Amita. Whereas Don, he'd been questioning himself a lot the last several years. He'd even gone so far as to contemplate quitting his job—when it had seemed to be clear to everyone but him that he was still really good at it. Romantically, Don was set now with Robin, but it had taken him awhile to realize that himself.

Don had chalked his lapse in self-confidence to a simple mid-life crisis, but Alan had wondered. Maybe the reason Don had been so lost the last few years had something to do with the all the time he'd spent feeling like he had to take care of himself. Maybe Don's fiercely independent nature had pushed him to the breaking point.

With these thoughts in mind, Alan had focused a lot of his energy on attempting to advise and guide his eldest son through his "mid-life crisis". To Alan, it was always reasonable to focus his attention on helping his children have good lives, whether they were 10 years old or 40 years old.

Alan loved his son, but sometimes he wondered how Don would have turned out had he been given the attention he'd deserved earlier in life. He didn't allow himself to dwell on that, ever, because he loved Don and he would never want to alter his personality in any way. As far as Don questioning himself went, Alan didn't figure it necessarily a bad thing. He loved that Don had become the kind of person who cared enough about his life to ponder it and contemplate the context of it all.

With the turn signal ticking away, Alan sat in the left-turn lane for nearly a minute before traffic opened up enough to let him squeeze through to the hospital parking lot.

Don seemed a lot more settled now though, Alan thought to himself as he scanned the rows of cars for an empty space. He'd been promoted to SAC and he was engaged to a wonderful woman whom Alan was very fond of—he was already referring to her as his daughter-in-law. There was a permanent smile in Don's eyes that had previously only made itself known on rare occasions. Alan was happy. Both of his sons were happy.

Of course, Alan would have to see how good of a mood Donnie was in right at this moment, while being stitched up after being shot. It would be okay though; Alan wasn't worried. Don was fine.

He parked the car; his driving reflexes on auto-pilot. _Sheesh. Took long enough._

There he went, being all impatient again. Where had his sudden road rage come from? He shook his head to himself as he speed-walked across the parking lot.

Upon reaching the automatic doors, Alan didn't hesitate before flanking left towards the front desk. Yeah, he'd picked Don up at this E.R. a few times before. He approached the nurse sitting at the computer and flashed her a small, friendly smile.

"Hi," he greeted. "I'm here looking for my son, Don Eppes. He was just brought in here a little while ago. Could you tell me where I might find him?"

The young nurse smiled back at him warmly. "Hold on, let me check."

Before she could come back with a reply, Alan heard a familiar voice from behind him.

"Alan, hey," Colby called. Alan turned around to face the younger man. "Don's almost done. He's doing fine. He's back here, if you want to see him. Come on."

Wordlessly, Alan followed Colby back towards the row of curtained cubicles. Don was almost finished, Colby had said. And then Alan would take him home and cook him dinner. Maybe they'd find a game on the TV to watch. They'd have a pleasant evening together, father and son. It would be just fine. Alan wasn't worried.

In front of him, Colby suddenly stopped and pulled back a curtain. He didn't go inside, however. He leaned in, looking off to the right, but Alan couldn't see inside.

"Hey Don," Colby said. "Your dad's here to drive you home. I have to get back to the office."

There was a short pause before Don's reply came drifting through the curtain. "All right. I guess you could let him in now."

Colby stepped back, holding the curtain open for Alan to step through. Don's voice through the curtain had sounded tight and controlled. Alan would go inside the cubicle and Don would reassure him that he was fine and they'd go home. That's pretty much how it always went, so Alan wasn't really all that worried.

He stepped through. Don's back was turned to him, but the younger Eppes was peering back over his uninjured shoulder towards Alan. He was bare-chested; an E.R. doctor was just finishing up his work on the large white dressing that was completely encircling Don's right shoulder.

Suddenly, Alan felt a little like he'd been punched in the stomach. All the air rushed out of his lungs. It took him almost a full second to grasp why he suddenly felt like he'd been beaten up.

The look in Don's brown eyes broke Alan's heart into a million pieces. They were opened large and wide, a slightly glassy layer conveying pain. Don was clearly in pain. The sight made Alan want to rush forward and envelop his son in a crushing embrace. He spent around two or three seconds frozen in place, taking in Don's obvious discomfort.

A feeling instantaneously blossomed deep inside Alan. It was clearly a feeling that had already been there, deep inside him, but Alan had pushed it down and ignored it, hoping that by telling himself over and over that it didn't exist, it would go away. But one look at his son's pale, sweaty face caused this feeling to explode through Alan, taking over him completely.

Alan was a little worried about his son.

"Donnie," he muttered, grappling onto his self-control. "How're you doing, son?"

Don feigned a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I've been better, but I'm fine, Dad," came the almost scripted reply. "Really. I'm okay."

Alan spit out his expected line almost automatically. "Well, then we really need to work on your definition of fine." He wandered over to where his son sat, coming around so that Don was facing him.

"You must be Agent Eppes' father," the doctor spoke up. "He's all patched up and ready to go. He'll be fine, just needs a little time to rest and let it heal up. You'll be free to go shortly Agent Eppes. I'll be back in a few minutes to explain how to care for the wound and the stitches. Excuse me."

When the doctor was gone, Alan shot his son a wry look. "As if we don't already know how to take care of wounds and stitches. I could probably give _him_ a few tips."

Don's dark eyes found his father's, a tender mixture of pain, fatigue, and guilt in them that made Alan ache inside.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Don mumbled. "I hate doing this to you."

Alan sighed. "I know, son." He rubbed Don's uninjured arm. "I wish you'd be more careful, but I understand it's just part of the job."

These were words Alan had never spoken out loud. Don had always accused him of _not_ understanding that being in dangerous situations was part of his job, but the Eppes patriarch understood it perfectly well. It was a difficult thing to come to grips with—when your son devoted his life to being in dangerous situations in order to ensure the safety of others, and became quite good at it. Alan was, in truth, proud of his son for doing what he did every day.

Deep down, Alan knew exactly where Don had inherited his tightly controlled emotions; he'd gotten them from his father. Alan knew he was just as bad at dealing with emotional situations as Don was, but for some reason that he didn't quite understand, today it felt so wrong. Margaret always had accused him of being too stubborn. Maybe it was time to push some of that aside and make sure his son knew that things were really okay.

Don was looking up at Alan from his seat on the gurney, his eyes clouded confusion and wonder.

"Really, Donnie," Alan assured, moving his hand up to rub Don's uninjured shoulder. "It's okay. I'm proud of you, son."

Don drew in a shaky breath. "Thanks, Dad." Clearly, Don didn't understand what had brought on such a sudden display of emotion in his father. The younger man reached up and returned the sentiment with an affection pat on Alan's shoulder.

"All right," Alan said, clearing his throat. No sense making this awkward and mushy. "Well, let's get you home and get you some rest. You look tired. You'll sleep upstairs in your old room, though, all right?"

"Dad, I can rest just fine from the couch," Don argued his usual argument, clearly more comfortable with this new direction the conversation had taken. "It won't make any difference."

"Yes it will," Alan shot back. "You'll be more comfortable in the bed and you'll sleep better."

A little mother-hen-like hovering never hurt, though.

END.


End file.
